


beside the river

by couldaughter



Series: space manhattans [4]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Epistolary, M/M, POV Multiple, Tarsus IV, discussion of trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 11:01:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19991062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/couldaughter/pseuds/couldaughter
Summary: “Kid, comm me when you get this,” says Old Jim, oddly serious, holographic eyes dark, crow’s feet deep and shadowed. “It’s, uh, life and death, I suppose.”Jim’s PADD battery dies a few hours before alpha shift commences; he doesn’t get the message.





	beside the river

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magaliiiii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magaliiiii/gifts).



> Warnings: Tarsus IV - discussion of genocide (more implicit in this fic but the wider context is present) and starvation/disordered eating related to starvation

“Kid, comm me when you get this,” says Old Jim, oddly serious, holographic eyes dark, crow’s feet deep and shadowed. “It’s, uh, life and death, I suppose.”

Jim’s PADD battery dies a few hours before alpha shift commences; he doesn’t get the message.

* * *

There are only a couple of things in his past Jim refuses to talk about. It’s not much of a defense mechanism, to be honest, since half the goddamn Federation seems to know all his business these days, but he’s doing his best to maintain at least a little privacy surrounding the parts of his life that aren’t common knowledge.

Mom is one, obviously, if only because she actually comms him from time to time, these days, and he doesn’t want to drag anything up now they have something approaching a friendship. The maternal instinct may not be there, but she respects him, and he likes her, and sometimes that’s enough.

The embarrassing stuff has been picked over four or five times while on a bender with Bones at the academy; the time he had to jump out of Gary Mitchell’s window at four in the morning was a favourite, although Jim usually left out the sprained ankle when he had an audience for it. He’s not ashamed of that stuff, anyway; everyone’s done dumb shit at some point or another, whether they’ll admit it or not.

But there’s one period he doesn’t touch; he’s pretty sure Starfleet hasn’t connected him to it yet, and he’s perfectly fucking happy keeping it that way. The medical records are sealed; the judicial proceedings got canned before anything got brought to trial. 

The only people who know about Jim’s teenage exile to Tarsus IV are either pretty invested in keeping their own secret, or they’re dead. Died in one fell swoop, actually.

* * *

[Encoded ship-to-ship message received Stardate 2259.4.18. Complete. Point of origin: USS Farragut.]

_Jim, it’s your mother. I’m hearing whispers of something_ — _bad, something you’re probably gonna get tangled up in soon. Can’t trust anybody these days_ — _especially people who lie for a living. You checked in with Tom recently?_

* * *

A long, tuneless whistle. Jim sighs, rubs the bridge of his nose, sits up straight. Bones has been nagging him about his posture for months, but it’s not really had much of an impact. Jim thinks maybe he was just born to slouch.

“Captain, incoming transmission.”

“On screen, Lieutenant.”

Admiral Thwaites looms large over the bridge. Jim really doesn’t know why the view screen has to be so goddamn huge. He asked Scotty once, and all he got in return was a shrug and a, _Fuck if I know, captain_. Scotty has a standard answer these days along the same lines, although it’s a little bit more diplomatic.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Admiral?” Jim asks, crossing his ankles, leaning forward on one elbow. “A video call all the way out here, just for little old me?”

“No need to get excited, captain,” says Thwaited. “It’s a simple escort mission. The Karidian Players have asked if they can hitch a ride. Apparently their previous ship was blown up in a skirmish along the edge of the neutral zone.”

_What the hell is an acting troupe doing along the neutral zone?_ Jim knew he wouldn’t get a satisfying answer to that kind of question from an Admiral, but all the same — the thought nagged at him, like a stone in his shoe. The rustle of otherworldly wind through the fields.

* * *

[Encoded transmission intercepted Stardate 2259.4.19. Fragmentary. Point of origin: USS Enterprise, Captain’s quarters.] 

_Hoshi, I need to_ — _there’s something we should_ — 

_[Static. Several minutes of audio data are corrupted.]_

_Call me, alright? I can’t, uh_ — _I can’t just say it to your inbox. I can’t say it at all, actually. What’s that old Earth saying? Quel surprise?_

* * *

“No, Spock,” says Jim, eyes dark and mouth drawn tight. “Not tonight.”

“Of course,” says Spock. He resists the urge to clench his fists behind his back; he cannot risk the outward appearance of anything but complete, rational distance. “Theatre is an acquired taste, as I understand.”

“Yes,” says Jim. He rolls his lower lip between his teeth, shoulders back. “I’ve never thought to acquire it, I’m afraid. Enjoy the show.”

Later, when Spock accesses the ship’s logs, he finds that Jim spent the duration of the first two acts of Henry IV occupied in a long-distance vid call with Hoshi Sato — Spock recognises the name from a number of articles on xenolinguistic diversity and childhood language acquisition among non-Standard cultures. She was widely respected in the field before a sudden decline in her health led to early retirement. He was not previously aware of a connection between the two.

“Interesting,” he says to himself, to the darkened room. A crushing sensation seats itself beneath his diaphragm, next to his heart.

Jim does not come to sleep with Spock that evening. This is statistically insignificant; there have been many similar evenings since their association became romantic in nature. Nevertheless, Spock is unsettled, and cannot quite explain why.

* * *

[Encoded transmission intercepted Stardate 2259.4.20. Complete. Point of origin: New Vulcan]

_Commander, I fear your concerns are not unfounded. This means of communication is not secure; I will contact you via alternate means with further information. Jim is_ — _concerned, for your captain. He is available should he require additional support, in the coming days. Presuming events proceed at a comparable rate, you should hear from him soon._

* * *

“You gonna finish that? Only, recalibrating the warp core is liable to leave a man a wee bit famished, and I do fancy a bit of replicated chicken every now and then.” 

Scotty gestures towards Jim’s plate. He glances down at the sandwich and fights the urge to vomit.

“I think I’m good,” he says, patting Scotty on the shoulder. He pushes himself off the bench and turns to leave. “Enjoy. I’ll grab something in my quarters.”

Anton Karidian has been watching him; the old man sits hunched in the corner of the mess, a PADD with the script for Macbeth laid in front of him, still open to the gathering of witches. 

The glint of light against the table reminds Jim of phaser fire, and screaming, and four thousand people in one warehouse.

_Something wicked this way comes,_ indeed. Jim snorts, and flinches, and leaves. Karidian follows.

* * *

[Audio transcript of surveillance footage dated 2259.4.23. Fragmentary. Point of origin: Medbay.]

\- _survival depends on drastic measures - slow death to the more valued members - no alternative - so ordered - Kodos._

_Is that what you wanted, James?_

_[A lockdown alarm sounds.]_

_I see._

* * *

Jim is not in his quarters. He is not in medbay, despite Doctor McCoy’s protests. He is not on the bridge, because Doctor McCoy has also placed him on medical leave.

He is, in fact, seated on a rush mat inside Spock’s own quarters, cross-legged and not meditating in the least.

“He was on my ship, Spock,” says Jim, something wild in his eyes that has taken root and will not leave, no matter that it’s been a week since Kodos was remanded into Federation custody. It seems they received a corroborating account as to the man’s true identity.

Jim’s alone was, of course, seen as insufficient. Such is the way of humans, Spock thinks. No proof is ever empirical enough.

“I am aware,” says Spock, because he is, and because there is nothing else he can think of to say. He folds himself to sit down before Jim, knees bare centimeters apart, and places a hand, palm down, between them.

Jim looks down at it, then frowns. He meets Spock’s gaze for the first time since — Spock can’t be sure. Perhaps that vid call from Admiral Thwaites, a man for whom Spock ought to have a great deal of professional respect.

Spock does not blink. “Jim,” he says. He flexes his fingers, feeling the thin rushes pushing against his skin. “ _S’ti th’laktra_. You are not alone.”

“I was, once,” says Jim. His gaze has slipped somewhere far away. His own hands are gripping his forearms hard enough to leave bruises. 

Spock leans forward, steadies himself with a hand on Jim’s shoulder. “Jim,” he repeats. “Can I —?”

Jim sags forward, pushes his forehead into the crook of Spock’s neck, waits to be held with tension shaking its way down his spine, into his hands and feet. It hurts to look at him.

Spock slides a hand to the back of his neck, and waits for the tremors to pass.

* * *

[Encoded ship-to-ship transmission intercepted Stardate 2259.4.25. Complete. Point of origin: USS Tamar.]

_Rendezvous as agreed at transporter pad. Ambush ready and waiting. - JTK_

* * *

Jim’s never paid much attention to Bones’ three-years-and-counting vendetta against the Enterprise’s transporter bay, but as he watches an uncomfortably familiar figure materialise a scant few feet away from him, he feels absolutely ready to declare any and all transporter technology an abomination unto Nuggan.

“Permission to come aboard, captain?” 

Old Jim smiles at him like they’re old friends sharing a private joke. Jim would probably find it funny if he wasn’t running on two hours of sleep and a hell of a lot of replicator-grade coffee.

“Granted,” he says, because he may be tired and on edge and feel like he’s standing two feet to the left of wherever he actually is, but protocol must be observed. “Hi, old man.”

“Kid,” says Old Jim. His answering smile is strained, something familiar reflected in his eyes. “Can we talk?”

* * *

[Encoded transmission intercepted Stardate 2258.4.22. Fragmentary. Point of origin: Planet Q.]

[Initial text corrupted. Recipient unknown.]

_Wish we coulda reconnected under better circumstances, Ty. You got a grudge against the blind guy now?_

_Uh, thank you. For letting me know. Even if I’m not gonna sleep for a month, again. Pays to be prepared._

* * *

Jim keeps an eye on the kid while he pours synthehol into two whisky glasses. 

It’s been a weird few months, keeping tabs on a younger, somehow more reckless version of himself. There have been missions that were totally new to him, places in the quadrant Jim never dreamed of going with his own Enterprise.

And of course there are the missions he does recognise, even if the specifics are different. Which is why, when the alert he set up when he first got to this timeline went off last week, he went to the spaceport and caught the first shuttle going towards the neutral zone.

He glances down at his hands, flexes his left into a fist. There were burn scars there, once, curling fernlike from wrist to elbow, before the dermal regenerator did its work. He’d been in hospital for a long time.

“Order up,” says Kirk, handing Jim a glass. “Cheers to childhood trauma, right?”

“Cheers.” Jim toasts him and takes a sip, then shudders. Synthehol really hasn’t improved across timelines.

They sit in silence for a while. They’re in the Captain’s quarters, which are sleek and shiny but still cramped in a pleasingly familiar way. If Jim breathes in too sharply, he thinks he could catch the smell of wheat rotting across town. 

“So,” says Kirk, eventually. He swirls the dregs of his glass and stares into them like they might reveal the secrets of the universe. “Which list were you on?”

Jim flinches. The memory of it weighs down on him, no less heavy with age. “Which do you think? I was a scrawny, booksmart kid who asked too many questions. I’m surprised I didn’t get taken out earlier.”

“Right,” says Kirk. He rubs the back of his neck. His hair falls into his eyes, casts a shadow across his face. “I thought maybe, y’know, you wouldn’t have been there. Since dad was, uh, alive. And everything.”

“Didn’t mean he was home all that often,” Jim replies, softly. He never resented dad for that, but it was hard. “Mom got posted to the Farragut a couple months before my thirteenth birthday. Sam was already at college, I needed to go somewhere. Aunt Georgia and her wife said they could have me, and I went, and I was happy, and then the crops failed.”

“Yeah,” says Kirk. “Yeah, that sounds pretty familiar.” 

Jim glances around the room. There are a couple of plates of replicator fare, untouched, resting on the floor by the bed. The covers have been made up with absolute precision, and clearly haven’t been touched for days. The corner of a crumpled blanket peeks out from the closet.

The circles under Kirk’s eyes are so deep Jim thinks he could dig a well in them. 

Jim takes another sip of synthehol, and longs for Romulan ale. “How long before Starfleet arrived?”

“Too long,” says Kirk. He clenches his jaw, swallows convulsively. “We, uh, we had to make some — hard choices.”

Jim nods, and doesn’t press, and swallows against the phantom smoke that presses in.

“I was with a couple other kids,” says Jim. “We hid out at my aunt’s house at first, but then it got — bad.”

“Yeah,” says Kirk. He laughs, something deep and nasty and short. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

They lapse back into silence. The room is full of ghosts.

Eventually: “Did you get him too?”

“Yeah, kid, we did. Took a while longer, though, and there were some — complications.”

“Oh yeah?” Kirk asks, warily.

“Kodos — he had a daughter. She killed him.” Jim closes his eyes against the memory of Lenore, feeling the sting of tears threatening to rise. “She killed Tom, too.”

“ _Oh_ ,” says Kirk, gut-punched. 

Jim puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezes gently. “So you see, kid,” he continues, tilting his head. “It could’ve been way worse.”

“Not that comforting,” says Kirk. “But thanks. And thanks for, uh, being here. I’m not doing — great.”

“Your first officer did mention that,” Jim replies, dryly. Spock had forwarded him a few of the more context-heavy messages, just to be sure what he was walking into. Their bond didn’t transfer visuals very well over long distances. It was a real mood killer on lonely nights. “He’s been — concerned, about you.”

“You know what Spock’s like, _Admiral_ ,” says Kirk, a gleam of himself flashing in his eyes. “Can’t leave a man to stew in peace.” He smiles, bare and small and fond. 

Jim nods thoughtfully. “You talk to him about it yet?”

“No,” says Kirk, shaking his head. “I don’t want to drag him into all this bullshit. He’s had enough misery in his life by now.”

“They say a problem shared is a problem halved, you know,” says Jim, thinking of a dusty balcony a few solar systems distant. The dry heat lingers. “And no offence, kid, but this is gonna eat you up if you don’t talk about it. There’s stewing, and there’s drowning. I’m speaking from experience, here.”

And no less than four breakdowns kept carefully hidden from his crew, until Bones found him hyperventilating in the turbolift and dragged him to medbay to curse him out, and for a long overdue psych evaluation.

And then Spock had arrived, by apparent coincidence, and shepherded him back to his quarters, and honest-to-goodness tucked him into bed, and kept watch when Jim woke up fighting.

“Keep your friends close,” he continues. “You never know how long you’ve got. May as well make the most of the emotional support.”

He smiles, feels it almost reach his eyes.

“Thanks, Jim,” says Kirk. “I’ll, uh, keep it in mind.”

* * *

[Audio transcript of Captain’s log entry, Stardate 2259.4.28. Fragmentary. Point of origin: Observation deck.]

[Missing audio has been marked as classified.]

_The commander’s guest disembarked yesterday; I figure we might keep in touch. Turns out we have a lot in common._

_[Static]_

_Our most recent mission has been reclassified as an extradition to save face; Thwaites looked about ready to faint when I made my official report. Who would’ve thought a man who_ —

_[Static]_

_But enough of my rambling. I’ve got a date with a whole row of hyposprays. Bones looked about ready to faint when I actually made an appointment. Hopefully then I might manage to keep down more than half a meal a day._

_I’ve heard recovery isn’t a linear process. I just wish my life wasn’t the fucking case study that proves it._

* * *

[Encoded transmission intercepted Stardate 2259.5.3. Complete. Point of origin: USS Enterprise, First Officer’s Quarters.]

_La’ek’muhl, Ambassador. Thank you._

**Author's Note:**

> Breaking News: Author just could not stay off the goddamn angst train for even a second. Also, NEVER write an extended conversation between two versions of the same character. I cannot juggle that in my head for even a second. 
> 
> Title from Once In My Life by The Decemberists
> 
> Find me on twitter and tumblr @dotsayers, just generally yelling about something or the other. This AU has really got out of hand but that's life, y'know. In the next installment: IDK, probably something happy and irreverent. Gotta keep up my mercurial brand.
> 
> Take care of yourselves, everyone.


End file.
